The Mirror That Lies: A Pedagogical Escape in Times of War (and Peace)

Abstract

Pushkin's famous fairytale “The Tale of the dead princess and the seven champions” features the all-knowing mirror whose value of the image is timeless and absolute. The only way to alter its gaze is to do violence to those who stand in its way, or, conversely, to look beyond its frame in creative contemplation with other. Bakhtin's 1940s notes, written in the heat of war, likewise explore the mirror as “the lie that warms” (Rhetoric, 1943, p. 209)—one that clouds the image and demands allegiance through control. To free oneself is to exceed its objectifying bounds and thus reclaim subjective co-experience. Reflecting on the mirror in contemporary times of war (and their reverberations at times of so-called peace), this article, with the inspiration of Bakhtin's War time notes and associated works overtime, sets forth a dialogic route for education as a means of transcending the entrapment of the mirror through “philosophical wondering” and, more explicitly, “visual surplus.”

Introduction

Pushkin's fairytale “The Tale of the dead princess and the seven champions” (cited in Bazile, 2017) tells the story of a wicked Queen who turns to the mirror to determine her beauty based on the image that is offered therein and upon which she relies for her sense of value. She asks the question, “who is the fairest of them all – nothing but the truth my dear! Tell me, am I sweetest, fairest?” but she only seeks one answer. When this is not given, and the mirror replies “She is the sweetest, rosiest, fairest the princess is the rarest” the Queen goes into a rage, waging war on the unsuspecting young princess—who we most commonly might know as Snow White. The story that unfolds as a consequence is filled with moral purpose as to the ultimate consequences of such vanity for the Queen.

Notwithstanding the objectifying gender and ageist undertones of this tale for contemporary times, this Russian “mirroring phenomenon” (Osmukhina, 2019, p. 3) sets the scene for an examination that was to follow concerning some of the most significant tenets of war and its omnipresence in peace today. Twentieth-century Russian thinker, philologist, and pedagogue—Mikhail Bakhtin—was preoccupied with the “image” in much of his early philosophical writing, where he explored relationships between hero and author, art and life, and art and answerability. Despite their influence on later writings, these works have often been dismissed by educational scholars based on subsequent and explicit shifts in Bakhtin's scholarship. These are seen especially through Bakhtin's (1984a) study of Dostoevsky ¹ —where dialogism claimed its status. It was here that “form” and its representation in the image (in this case, the novel) shifted from finished to unfinishable, liberating it from artistic consummation and establishing a polyphonic plot involving autonomous characters who are complex, double-voiced, and always on the thresholds of becoming (Hirschkop, 2021).

The mirror also appears as an artistic device for examining the status and treatment of the image in art. In recently translated Duvakin Interviews just prior to his death in 1973, Bakhtin re-asserts this preoccupation with the visual image as well as text: “You can hit me, physically strike my body, sure, but you cannot get to me as an artist…. My vision is beyond yours…. You can’t do anything to me” (Bakhtin, cited in Gratchev & Marinova, 2019, p. 125). Within the context of this interview, Bakhtin is referring to the Suprematist artist Malevich (a member of his 1920 “Circle”—whom Bakhtin described as escaping reality through non-objective “Supermatist” thought (White & Gradovski, 2021). Malevich tackles central problems of his times concerning essence, engagement, and creativity—posing a break from literal representation through sensing interactions with consciousness, feeling, and materiality. The image (and its reflection) is therefore both a practical and philosophical proposition for examining, advancing, and disrupting representations and their claims of truth. This proposition is also evident in Bakhtin's writing in and out of that epoch, which is hardly surprising given the times in which he lived.

Perhaps the most poignant use of the mirror, however, is now discoverable in Bakhtin's recently translated War time notes ² (Denischenko et al., 2017) where the phenomenon of (what has been translated as) “thingifying” and “reifying” (ibid, p. 197) casts “other” as a finished product; before focussing explicitly to the violence of war through “ rhetoric, to the extent that it lies” (Bakhtin, 1943, cited in Denischenko et al., p. 203). It is to these collective writings we now orient explicitly—as a source of inspiration and a potential² way out of the trap of war through Bakhtin's associated concept of visual surplus (Bakhtin, 1986).

The Wartime Notes

Bakhtin's Wartime notes are an important discovery for our purposes for two reasons—firstly because they were written in the heat of war. They refract Bakhtin'sown experiences of oppression, censorship and violence, and, as Caryl Emerson reminds us, invite us to view his contributions through the lens of “heavy flesh” (cited in Emerson et al., 2020, p. 621)—a manon crutches and often in pain “who was personally obliged to take the material principle seriously.” Bakhtin's personal fearlessness is evident in these wartime notes (and, indeed, also in other biographical evidence now at our disposal). They suggest that he actually utilised his experiences of war as a source of provocation for understanding the trapping of word and/as image as the manipulative center of violence through its lie.

The notes are also important because they were written towards the era of the “seriousness” of the world—a project that Bakhtin was engaged with in between the Dostoevsky (1984a) and Rabaleain (1984b) texts—suggesting that Bakhtin was not yet done with the image or its relevance in his thinking at that time, despite commentaries to the contrary (refs). As the editors tell us: “…the notebooks bridge his earlier philosophical concerns with his philological investigations and anticipate his later methodological observations” (Denischenko & Spektor, 2017, p. 191). His route to such examination is explicitly through the mirror.

The Three Wartime Essays and the Mirror

In the War time notes, we find three discrete fragments of writing that each turn to the mirror in various and cumulative ways—in the first—a 1943 essay “Rhetoric, to the extent that it lies,” Bakhtin explores the processes by which we come to know in the world, then returns to the author-hero of his earlier philosophical writings—once more attacking the relationship between the image and word. The second very brief but perhaps more familiar piece—“A person in the mirror” ³ —now fully exploits the mirror as a microdrama for cognising the other, such that the image in the mirror becomes a dialogic event that exceeds “self” reflection: “Here, there is nonaïve wholeness of the external and internal. […] The surplus of the other [drugoi]. […] From my eyes peer out the eyes of the other.10” (Bakhtin, 2017b, p. 217)

In the third essay fragment—“On questions” sees Bakhtin turn the mirror into a critical tool for understanding self-consciousness, shifting “I” positions and ends with the arrival of “great time” as a route to understanding and engagement. Here, Bakhtin stretches viewings of the present image across past memories into/and out of messianic futures that cast much larger shadows on what is represented, how it is imaged, for what purpose(s), to what ends and, from a dialogic standpoint, how it reveals strategic orientation as a consequence. In this rendering of the mirror time is no longer locked in the here-and-now, so what might be perceived as war—or peace for that matter—becomes a matter of perception and perspective rather than truth. Seen in this light, the distinction between the two is discerned by the extent to which one set of perspectives seeks to overthrow another—viewing its image as a threat that must be overcome.

Across these three 1940s essays, it is possible to discern a series of tenets that arise from Bakhtin's examination of the mirror and its relationship to the violence, and perhaps even definition, of war:

Truth is always “the lie that warms” which arises out of monologic obsession and leads to violence.

The image objectifies for itself, not the other, and transforms the one who believes it into a “thingified thing” for manipulation.

The lie deceives us because it binds us to a certain time and space without grounding in alternative lives (past, present or future).

Such violence clouds the mirror, oppresses, devours, consumes, and denies freedom by disassociating the image from sense or any alternative viewing.

As Bakhtin asserts: “The image, in relation to the object itself, is either a blow (udar) from within or a gift (dar) from without, an unjustified gift, hypocritically flattering” (Bakhtin, 2017c, p. 209). It is therefore a highly manipulative and intentional act on the part of the objectifying author/artist who will use every propaganda device at their disposal to achieve their objectivizing goals. Thus the mirror is fully implicated as a manipulative means of doing violence to “another” through its objectivizing gaze and in the absence of subjective thought or practice. In the absence of the “I” lies become truths that declare victory overall—doing violence to diversity, difference, dissensus, freedom, and dialogue. These tenets underpin dialogic pedagogy and may be our best hope yet of escaping the monologic reflection of this mirror that seeks to enframe us all.

A Transgradient Response Through Visual Surplus

Like Pushkin's Queen, the mirror in war actively seeks to trap our gaze within one frame, and in so doing, traps those who are arrested by its image. Yet, Bakhtin most poignantly says in his concluding remarks to the wartime notes that “everything could have been different” (Bakhtin, 2017c, p. 215). In this last segment of the set, he calls for a new “philosophical wondering” (ibid) that can exceed naïve allegiance to this mirror by opening up to possibilities beyond all finalization. The unfinalized subject has the capacity to transgress monologic reflections through visual surplus—a concept (and, arguably, a method) that first appears in early philosophical works. In this early positioning, Bakhtin explains how the see-er might “create a consummating environment for him out of this excess of my own seeing, knowing, desiring and feeling” (Bakhtin, 1990, p. 25), and is at pains to illustrate the importance of authorship accordingly. But a fruitful progression of this concept is discoverable in Bakhtin's later fragmentary work (1986), where he grants more attention to the creative process of striving to see “with” another. By contrasting one view against another and focusing on the process of seeing rather than what is produced, Bakhtin argues that more expansive insights will be found. According to Bakhtin (1984), the author should strive for integral fields of vision to intersect as a polyphonic chorus—a point he returns to repeatedly over the many years of his scholarship:

For one cannot even really see one's own exterior and comprehend it as a whole, and no mirrors or photographs can help; our real exterior can be seen and understood only by other people, because they are located outside us in space and because they are others (Bakhtin, 1986, p. 7).

As such, Bakhtin's concept of visual surplus is concerned with creative contemplation with and about another. What is seen (how it conveyed and its strategic orientation that takes into account its emotional-evaluative context) serves as a portal, or bridge, or in the case of war perhaps an escape, reconciliation or resistance, from what is held dear simply because it is familiar to us, to something new, perhaps even strange or confronting. Retrieved through creative processes of apperceptive perception, recognition, interpretation, active dialogic understanding, and evaluation (Bakhtin, 1986), visual surplus creates a pathway towards seeing as contemplative, effortful, sensorial engagement and opportunity for insight. Visual surplus also has the power to defend or disrupt dearly held truths held by the see-er who is presented with alternative sightings and speculations as a consequence. Such viewings are not merely an exchange of one perspective for another, but a dialogic interplay and inquiry that fully implicates both the see-er and the seen. In the absence of visual surplus, the mirror becomes “the crash of [this] hope, interrogation, and a bullet into the back of one's head (“in absentia,” i.e., without looking into one's eyes)” (Sandomirskaia, 2013, cited in Desnischenko, et al., p. 261)—to which one obediently aligns, or is destroyed. In this wartime looking glass, there appears to be no escape.

A Pedagogical Response

Bakhtin's antidote to the lie of the mirror calls for a pedagogical, as well as a rhetorical, response both in and out of war. Education must not only teach learners to critically engage with the images that are presented to them (as well as those that author their lives), but those who teach must suspend their dearly held truths, incurious and critical dialogues with “other.” As Biesta (2017) reminds us, this is not merely a learning objective, but also a teaching one. As well as inviting learners to critical engagement with images of themselves and others, the teacher who takes visual surplus seriously must view themselves as becoming-with learners. To do this, they must be open to new formations, expressions, and insights that exceed, perhaps even challenge, their own—and which are always partial viewings. In the absence of visual surplus, the transformative potential of both teacher and learner is lost, since the learner is cast as already known through the single consciousness of the teacher as the Socratic expert who inscribes and manipulates meaning based on their own partial perspective. Seen through this mono-mirror, there is no opportunity for alternative views, potentiality, creative possibility, or speculative, perhaps even utopian, thought. The teacher already knows the answers and wages war on childhoods who seek alternative image-ings in order to “snuff out the world of children's expectations for the sake of ensuring their logical constructions” (Lobok, 2012, p. 105). We have seen similar suffocations in wider fields of education, and in culture—and these lie at the heart of the colonizing narratives that have done so much harm to Indigenous learners all over the world.

Paying attention to the polemics of any truth claim when seen through different points of view gives emphasis to “personal life with worldview, of the most intimate experiences with the idea … [where] ideological thinking becomes passionate and intimately linked with personality” (Bakhtin, 1984, p. 79). Voices are not placed in the service of the teacher who manipulates them for their own purposes, but alongside the teacher as an “equally-valid consciousness” (1984, p. 7). Emphasis is therefore not only given to what is represented but how and why it is represented in a certain way—its verbal and non-verbal intonation, tone, and strategic purpose (or genre)—and as image. Representations thus draw attention to what is seen as much as what is heard—paying heed to diverse language forms and their shaping potential—thus paving the way for alternative viewings and speculations as to their meanings in and across contexts and over time. For this reason, Paul Sullivan (2012) ascribes the role of the polyphonic researcher as generating spaces that bring participants together “with the polyphonic sounds of the ‘truth’ as it passes through different voices” (p. 151). Polyphony is typically achieved through intertextual artistic devices such as double-voiced quotations, parody and conflicts that reveal motivations, and alternate meanings. The same artistic devices are much needed in education today, yet there are all too few pedagogical orientations for the field.

Lessons From the Field?

Despite the growing legacy of dialogic pedagogy in education today, little attention has been granted to visual surplus as a dialogic tenet for the field. This seems surprising, given its potential to support contemporary learners (and teachers) in navigating increasingly diverse worlds. Many scholarly encounters with dialogic pedagogy (mostly in America) persist in wrestling with notions of democracy that do not serve us well in times of war. Indeed, Wegerif (2022, p. 3) suggests that we are at the end of democracy as we know it. He argues that what is now needed is a “rule by dialogue” which calls us to “discern, as closely as we can, recognising that our knowledge is always going to be imperfect, what conforms most closely to the common good of the will of the whole.” Yet even “common good” makes no sense in the face of a lie (Lensmire & White, 2017); and especially one that is manifested in the mirrors of war. As Bakhtin's wartime encounters remind us, there will always be winners and losers in the absence of the subjective other.

For this reason, it seems rather surprising that so little emphasis has been placed on these dialogic tenets in pedagogical experimentation with the many students who are learning in the heat of war. An exception is noted in a study of an online writing assignment where Jewish and Arab/Palestinian high school students were partnered with one another in exploring different historical narratives—leading to what they described as fissures or cracks that appeared in their altered perspectives as a consequence (Kolikant & Pollack, 2019). The authors describe the dialogues as blurring the borders and opening up possibilities to recognize that demonizing the Other, outside of dialogue, only perpetuates the violence of war. They also show how it might be possible to engage with dissensus without the need to “merge” (or in Bakhtin's terms—monologise) subjectivities.

Lawrence (2019) has more recently described this approach as a means of deliberately “loosen[ing] perception and allow[ing] for the revision of knowing about dialogue” (p. 13). There is much scope for dissensus, disruption, and the possibility of not knowing in this broader framework, which calls for deeply reflexive engagement with Others on these terms (White, 2022). Yet there are few guidelines for going about this—not least due to the problematic nature of such pedagogies for education that demands certain outcomes today. ⁴

Contemporary Mirrors

We see these same propositions and possibilities for escape playing out in contemporary mirrors that orient the kinds of violence that many have witnessed over recent months and years in contemporary wars between people, countries, and, indeed, with the planet. They are readily available to us in the images that accompany it, those that we receive, and, indeed, how they, and we, are manipulated as a consequence. Given their locations and movements in our increasingly ocularized digitalized worlds, which offer increasingly sophisticated forms of image manipulation and objectivized production—they are worthy of our critical engagement through visual surplus. I see this as one of the most pressing pedagogical and, indeed, political tasks of our time.

The consciousness of other people cannot be perceived, analyzed, or defined as objects or as things—one can only relate to them dialogically. To think about them means to talk with them; otherwise, they immediately turn to us their objectivized side: they fall silent, close up, and congeal into finished, objectivized images (Bakhtin, 1984, p. 68)

Such renderings are perhaps also the greatest challenge for the humanities since lives are at stake concerning what is seen and what is said about such seeings. This is especially so in contemplations of war and peace. The creative task that lies ahead, therefore, is not to procure certain sightings in the absence of speculation and critique, but to “broaden and multiply the worldness of the world and its thinkability and conceivability that cannot be reduced to a single world or any actual object within it” (Epstein, 2012, p. 268). Representations of any kind, especially in populations where the language and ideologies of participants are not necessarily shared, or difficult to access, are particularly well suited to such viewings (White, 2021). Visual surplus may well hold the key to a much-needed suspension of monologic truths to pave the way for alternative viewings. For this reason, visual surplus is not merely a provocation for teachers and learners in informal educational settings; it is also a source of creative potential and insight for researchers, policy makers, and in contemplation of our existing terrors, for politicians too. Such a promise should hardly be surprising when its origins draw from Bakhtin's own pre-Stalin interanimations with artists—now over 100 years ago—in the wake of the Russian revolution (White & Gradovski, 2021). Then, as now, there had been a lingering need to see the world beyond one's own limited point of view, especially when we can glimpse, even if fleetingly, what might be gained through such de-stablizing forms of visual surplus as a method for representing the lives of others.

Concluding Remarks

Returning to Pushkin's wicked stepmother, what might we now see of her gaze at the hands of her author and the times in which he wrote? Could it all have been different, for any of us, as Bakhtin would have us believe? How might we fruitfully apply visual surplus as a pedagogical escape from this mirror that casts us in and out of war—with ourselves and others—through its manipulative lie? What might we make of truth as a consequence? And what does this mean for our notions of so-called freedom at the expense of another? Self-reflection is not going to set us free in the absence of an “other” we cannot or will not see through the smoke in these mirrors and our own obscured vanities.

In summoning visual surplus, we can find ways to look beyond the allure of the mirror to see ourselves and others beyond taken-for-granted ways of seeing (and knowing). This is not easy since we are all, as Bakhtin tells us, connected to an umbilical cord that ties us from the beginning. But it is, I believe, essential if we are to exceed the bounds of war that we orient our lives today. It is only through deliberate and difficult engagement with alternative perspectives and a capacity to suspend our own all-too-certain frame that we can reveal the lie that stands before us. As Hirschkop (2021) highlights, Bakhtin's project is not to merely describe language in any given context, but to understand how it is given voice and expression in representation and thought—this is an important project for pedagogy today—especially in contemplation of the mirror and its finalizing claims concerning the image it produces. To this I think Bakhtin might have us add probing and critical questions concerning why? And even “why not?” in contemplations of great time—the benefit of hindsight and with an openness to what might lie ahead, which lies at the heart of creativity.

Through the mirror Bakhtin urges us to look and linger deeply, widely, and morally with others—a tenet that lies at the heart of dialogism and its relationship to important notions of war and its antidote through dialogue “with” other subjectivities. With the help of Bakhtin's hopeful stance, a potential reconciliation is offered therein through dialogic thought and its visual emphasis in perpetuating the lie and, in the Bakhtinian spirit, an optimistic opportunity for reconciliation through “grounded peace” (Emerson et al., 2020).